


We Couldn't Get Much Higher

by kittenmittens



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M, Mpreg, PWP, Russian Tiddies, slight dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 05:42:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5363498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittenmittens/pseuds/kittenmittens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya is pregnant. Napoleon is eager to show his appreciation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Couldn't Get Much Higher

**Author's Note:**

> I only actually watched the movie once but I needed me some momma Illya so

"Still think that's a good idea, don't you?"

Illya grimaces. One month of being trapped with this man and he already feels like he's coming unhinged. It wasn't like participating in a few paid missions with Gaby there to keep him sane. That concept had been tolerable. But then he had ended up with this... obstacle, this  _deformity_ , and through some cruel twist of fate, through some idiotic reasoning, their superiors agreed to anoint Napoleon Solo as his temporary caretaker for the duration of his leave.

"In Russia, we have saying." Illya adjusts the tape on his palms and takes another brutal swing at the punching bag. He barely managed to sneak it in under the cowboy's ridiculously intrusive nose, but he made sure to find a way eventually. "It goes: no one asked you."

"Well, I don't think a lifeguard asks a drowning man whether or not he wants to receive mouth to mouth, but the effect's basically the same." Solo adjusts his paper with an obnoxious crack. "See, the goal in that situation, and my goal here, is to keep you from killing yourself by trying to do something  _phenomenally_ stupid. Going for a swim despite knowing you'll sink like a brick, for example."

Illya growls under his breath, landing another few strikes on the bag before stepping back. It may be true he is slower. It may be true he feels more exhausted than he's used to being, and that he's at the mercy of plenty of bizarre symptoms he never planned for, but he is  _not_  weak. He never will be, no matter how determined Solo is to make Illya out to be some sort of pathetic, vulnerable creature. Just thinking that makes Illya sick, though privately he can admit this stems from more than the American's obnoxious ranting. "I think this is jealousy."

"Jealousy?" Illya can practically hear one eyebrow go up in that mocking, superior way. Solo is always pretending he's right, and that the mere idea of him being wrong is  _laughable..._ Illya punches the bag extra hard while picturing it as the cowboy's face.

"Yes." Illya flexes his fingers, making sure nothing's bruised or fractured before he looks up, locking eyes wth Solo as he continues. "You are.... What is word? Projecting insecurities. Probably about how you cannot do this." He winds an arm back and smashes his fist into the bag again, making it swing back erratically. "Or this." He punches it equally hard using his other hand. "Or  _this_." He lifts his leg and swings it, aiming a roundhouse kick at the bag, but instead of feeling his foot connect with the leather, his thigh jerks against the underside of his stomach and he stumbles dangerously, barely managing to avoid falling by grabbing and holding onto the bag desperately.

There are a few seconds of silence, save for Illya's short, quick breaths, and the jingling of the chain above him, but this is promptly overshadowed by a loud, wheezing fit of laughter. Illya glances back to see Solo's paper is shaking, and the small sliver of forehead he can see above it has gone red.

"O-Oh, you caught me. Hit a real sore spot with that one." He shakes his head, cackling subsiding as he folds his paper in such a neat, loving way it makes Illya want to smash his head against a table. "I've always wanted to trip over my own stomach trying to kick a hanging bag of sand."

Illya refuses to dignify that a response, instead cracking his knuckles obviously before stomping into the dingy, undersized kitchen. Opening the cabinet, he gives the alcohol the cowboy snuck into the shelves—most likely as a means of tormenting him—a furious look, then grabs an empty glass, filling it with tap water and taking a bitter gulp. He jerks and nearly chokes when a solid hand clamps down on his shoulder.

"Don't be so sensitive," Solo murmurs, and Illya can somehow tell he's smirking. "I was just trying to help."

"Bullshit." Illya rolls his shoulder, forcing the other man to drop his hand.

"You don't have to be so hostile, either." Solo skirts around Illya, leaning against the counter beside him. "Remember, I'm only completing an assignment."

"That's ridiculous." Illya drops the glass sharply down on the counter. "I can take care of myself. Your assistance, legitimate or otherwise, is not needed."

"You think I'm pretending?" Solo brings a hand to his chest, acting as though he's mortally wounded. "That hurts, Peril. Truly and deeply."

Illya crosses his arms, despite the way it makes his tender,  _repulsively_  swollen chest sting. "Look. I have proposal. I don't want you here, and you must have better things to do than stay in this hovel and attempt to babysit me. So, my suggestion is this: you leave for as long as possible, I tell no one you are gone. Our superiors are happy, and there is chance I will not kill you or throw you out of window."

Solo gives that slow, discreet smile that makes Illya want to do both of the things he just mentioned. "Tempting offer, Kuryakin. Really, it is. But... " He shrugs, taking his weight off the counter and slipping his hands into his pockets. "Frankly, I have my reasons for sticking around. One is keeping up a truly  _impeccable_ CIA track record, the other is... " Illya's heart gives a sickening lurch as Solo reaches out and cups his hip. "A little more personal."

Illya grits his teeth and clenches his hand into a fist, glowering coldly at Solo. "Move." He doesn't know what, exactly, the cowboy is trying to do. Push Illya past his breaking point? Disturb him enough to think he's won some ridiculous, imagined contest? Perhaps. But Illya refuses to consider the possibility that Solo is being sincere. That in itself is far too disturbing.

"Just give me a chance."

Illya freezes, whole body breaking out in goosebumps as Solo moves his hand to cup at his rear. It takes a good moment or two for him to recover. "This is not funny."

"Never said it was supposed to be, Peril." He's grinning again, and Illya assumes his own abject horror is why he can't seem to tear his gaze away from the unhinged American's face. He holds still as a statue while Solo slides a hand under the hem of his wife-beater. It isn't until his palm is halfway up Illya's prominent stomach that he breaks out of his haze, shoving the other man away with a disgusted noise.

This is a sick joke. That, or Solo is far drunker than he appears to be. Illya doesn't wish to find out which is true; he merely wants to be as un-involved as possible. Turning around with as much fluidity as he can muster, he makes a move to exit the kitchen, but is stopped by two frustratingly strong arms wrapping around him, squeezing between the upper curve of his belly and the new weight of his chest. He feels the hairs on the back of his neck bristle as Solo presses his lips gingerly against his shoulder.

"Just give me a chance," Napoleon whispers.

"Absolutely not," Illya growls. The fact that his body refuses to move or push Solo away is completely irrelevant.

"I  _highly_  recommend you rethink that," Napoleon murmurs, stepping around Illya and grabbing him again. The shorter man pulls him as close as his massive stomach will allow, grabbing onto the back of Illya's neck, and Illya panics, mind screaming at his body to clock Napoleon in the jaw. But he can't move, instead going stiff all over again when the other man pulls him down slightly to kiss him. Solo slides his hand under Illya's shirt again, rubbing leisurely at the sensitive skin on his belly. Shuddering suddenly, Illya hunches forward, placing a clumsy hand on Napoleon's shoulder before he can think. "There you go." Napoleon  _purrs_ , and that sends a spark of rage through Illya's middle, but even that isn't enough to snap him out of this haze.

Napoleon moves his hand higher, cupping one side of Illya's full chest and rubbing gently at it with his thumb. Illya hears himself moan, and suddenly the realization hits him. "You  _drugged_ me."

"Oh, no." Napoleon chuckles, kissing Illya's jaw tenderly. "That would have been too easy."

He's not sure how it happens, and a part of him remains entirely, unwaveringly ashamed as Napoleon drags him towards the bed. But it happens regardless, and he feels himself falling on the mass of mismatched pillows before he can think twice. Napoleon clambers onto him, hands cupping his hips and then carelessly tugging his pants down to his knees as he kisses him so deeply Illya thinks he might pass out. After letting out a weak little gasp when Napoleon pulls away, Illya shakes his head miserably. Making a sickening whimper when Napoleon works his mouth against the side of his neck, Illya goes still again, too overcome with this frightening, unbearable sensitivity to notice that Napoleon is peeling his shirt off until it snags briefly on his chin.

"I've got you," Napoleon insists, wrapping an arm around Illya's aching back as he fumbles noisily with his belt.

Illya opens his mouth, intending to say something along the lines of, "Get your hands off me, you filth", but all he ends up being capable of is giving a stupid, bleary stare. Napoleon takes that as a "yes", though Illya refuses to admit it might be one, even in the privacy of his own mind. Napoleon grabs at his chest again, massaging the swollen, weighty surface, rolling his thumbs in such a way that it sends horrible,  _painfully_  eager sparks shooting through Illya's body. Groaning, he shifts and reluctantly wraps his arms around Napoleon's shoulders, limbs clumsy and barely responsive. This sensation only gets worse when the damn cowboy inches down, kissing a trail over his right breast before latching on softly, pursing his mouth and forcing Illya's whole body to tremble with need.

"P-Pozhaluista— _Please..."_ He curls his fingers into Napoleon's back, tugging pathetically at the fabric of his shirt as if trying to take control. Napoleon pulls away and straightens up, and Illya jerks his hips almost angrily, spreading his legs as well as he can with his pants caught at his knees. Napoleon chuckles, making sure to catch Illya's eye as he tugs his trousers lovingly downward—the urge to strangle the bastard rears up again, stronger than ever, but Illya's desperation just manages to drown it out. Panting, he rolls his hips again, gasping when Napoleon grabs at his chest, far rougher than before, then yelping when he pushes into him sharply, without warning.

For a moment, they're both still, Illya curled forward, eyes shut, face burning as though he has a fever; Napoleon, pressed into him, supporting him slightly with hand curled around his rear. Then slowly, carefully, Napoleon rolls his hips, making Illya shudder and gasp all over again. Illya's hands slump down, trailing forward before finally grabbing at Napoleon's shoulders. The other man moves gradually at first, but soon he's pressing against Illya more and more intently, rocking forward, holding out for a little longer each time.

Napoleon squeezes and grinds into his chest, each move of his wrist making Illya's head feel progressively lighter. Solo finally jerks forward, pushing so deep that Illya's body falls apart, giving the most intense spasm yet as he curls his toes and leans forward, fighting to stay like this, in any way that might prolong the sensation. Finally, he lets out a dizzy exhale and ends up falling against the pillows, chest heaving and vision blurred. He feels Napoleon move, clambering off of him and then easing down next to him, one arm dropping carelessly across his middle before pulling him close.

Illya thinks...

Well. He refuses to acknowledge anything positive about the situation that just unfolded. In fact, he refuses to even admit said situation  _happened._  Hopefully, Solo will be logical for the first time in his life and pretend this was all an unfortunate dream in the morning.

In the meantime, however, Illya simply will not  _allow_  him get the wrong impression.

"Don't think you've won, Cowboy."

"Oh," Napoleon mumbles, clearly half-asleep already. "Don't worry. I don't."

His tone, of course, suggests he's lying through his teeth.


End file.
